Stonekirk prelude
Author’s note: Stonekirk stonekirk stonekirk. One day this story will be written. Vampire jam. Magic realism. The urban decay of English market towns. The strange manner that North Yorkshire is somehow still snared in the 1950s, even as darkness runs through it. I’ve held off on writing it, because my friend David is very keen on doing the story and very much likes Benny and Burke. He came up with some of the elements of this: Philip Stead is his. I had a joke about Stead being “bitten in the Balkans”. It made us laugh every time I mentioned it for about six months. But that’s a different story.
So this is a prelude to that story. It may be that when Stonekirk is written this bit doesn’t even come into it, or it may act as the gateway to get Benny and Burke there. But I needed to get the story out of my system. So here it is. A little early because I’m out tomorrow.
Burke watched the graveyard from the car. Stead must have been a well-liked or much-hated man; half of Stonekirk had turned out to see him buried. Benny was amongst the throng, working the crowd, pretending to be a friend and work colleague, pressing the flesh. It was more than Burke could be bothered with these days.
Three weeks ago, Philip Stead’s body had been found in the Balkans. His throat had been cut with a knife and his limbs worried by what the bonesaws at SIS headquarters had identified as wolves. Clearly the agent of Her Majesty’s Government had run afoul of criminals of some variety, which then led to an investigation into his personal life.
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Urban Fairy Tale
Author’s note: And so, just to give the lie to the fact that this whole thing is going to be science fiction, here’s a little urban fantasy I wrote ooh four or five years ago. Benny and Burke, the protagonists, were created in the playground when I was eight. I was Benny (it was the nickname I gave myself), my friend Craig Roe was Burke (after the character in Trap Door). They’ve changed quite a bit since then and I dare say that they’ll reappear on this site before long.
In Glasgow snow was falling, making the streets wet and dangerous.
The house of Ignatius Clark, in contrast, was warm and well-furnished, and befitted a man of means. The living room had been adorned with tasteful art and accoutrements that bespoke the use of an interior designer. The kitchen was all stainless steel and clever devices. The bedroom, though, was the room of interest to Benny Stock and Craig Burke. Not because of the rich silk sheets and the mirror over the bed, but because it was the current resting place of Ignatius’ stilled form.
The body was face down on the bed, fully clothed. One arm was positioned under the chest, the other bent at a right angle. Burke bent down to take the pulse of the wrist on the free arm.
‘That’s one dead bugger,’ he said.
‘Well they told us he was,’ said Benny, looking in the wardrobe in the corner of the room. He stared in at the dead man’s clothes and wrinkled his nose. ‘Didn’t you believe them?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time an operator’s come back crying over a dead body, only for the corpse to be walking about when the clean-up crew break in.’ Burke hefted the body over and grimaced. ‘Maybe we can do a slip in the shower scenario.’
‘Do we know who we’re covering up for?’ asked Benny, wandering over to examine the corpse himself. His hand hovered over the head. ‘Oof. That would really hurt. Wasn’t this meant to have been an accident?’
‘Probably an impromptu interrogation gone bad,’ said Burke. ‘Huh. Most of the blood is soaked into the pillow; whoever did this didn’t do a bad job of cleaning up. Take that and the counterpane. See if you can dig out some replacements and I’ll stick laughing boy in the bath.’ (more…)